


the woman one loves is holy

by newtonartemis



Category: La Reina del Sur, La Reina del Sur (TV)
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death, but we already knew that so nobody should be surprised, off-shore banking, sad airport drinking, sex with strangers, too many heavy-handed dumas references, tortured memories, when you're definitely not gay but you're just gonna make out with this chick real quick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 15:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10901889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtonartemis/pseuds/newtonartemis
Summary: Teresa meets a ghost in an airport bar."It's necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live.” — Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo.





	the woman one loves is holy

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo here’s what happened. Kate del Castillo posted to her Instagram that Telemundo had ordered a sequel to the all-time best television show in human history, the ICONIC telenovela La Reina del Sur. The press release I read mentioned how the sequel will find Teresa living a “peaceful and idyllic life in the Italian countryside”, so then I cried some new tears over tragic bisexual party queen of my heart Paty O’Farrell, supposing she won’t be in the sequel cuz she’s like, dead, I had a 48-hour imagination spiral--and then this happened.
> 
> The biggest and most profoundest thanks to someplacelikebolivia, who leveled up our friendship by reading this and beta'ing it SO good I honestly couldn't believe it.
> 
> Spanish translations in hover text (I hope).

Teresa had seen many people die before, but she’d never seen anyone come back to life.

 

She heard the cruel, smoke-charred laugh first, which made her freeze, like a deer sensing a hunter nearby. _Que patética_ , she thought. Teresa had once been fearless—or at least, stupid and pigheaded enough to look death in the face without flinching. Now her enemies were dead, so there was even less sense to this foolishness. Perhaps it was motherhood. She remembered the unhinged panic in Fátima’s eyes in the hours before they’d found her son and wished she could tell her how much better she understood now. Sometimes when she ran her fingers through little Raimundo’s hair she thought of Mohamed, and the stickiness of his dark curls after they had been dampened by blood in that empty lot.

 

But anyone who posed that kind of risk to her or her son was gone. And so was Fátima, and Mohamed. Anyone else she’d loved who hadn’t been killed had been severed from her life, separated by as many false identities and shell companies as Oleg could manage for her. Everything from that life had ceased to exist.

 

So how was she hearing that laugh again, if it wasn’t the dead rising from her grave to collect the respects she’d neglected to pay?

 

After a few moments of staring into her glass, the sensation came back into her muscles. She inhaled to steady herself, and looked up to try and find the source of that familiar, displaced sound.

 

It didn’t take long—one glance down the length of the bar and Teresa saw her. Pale, luminous, radiant—

 

 _Virgencita santa_ , it _was_ her. Paty’s ghost.

 

Except, no, that couldn't be right—ghosts couldn’t be touched, and the man across from her had a hand firmly on the forearm she had resting on the bar. The ghost was smiling back at the man with that vapid, dead-behind-the-eyes smile women had to use on men there was no hope of getting rid of. Teresa remembered how that look on Paty’s face had won them their first major deal with the Italians.

 

But the longer Teresa looked, the more she wondered if she hadn’t just briefly lost her mind. It wasn’t quite Paty. The hair was too long for one thing—more of a bob than that short cut Paty had liked—and not quite the right shade of blonde. This woman’s hair was white, icier than Paty’s golden warmth. It made your blood run cold to look at it. Well, then, Teresa thought, maybe it was a ghost after all.

 

Teresa listened to the man laugh at his own story, and the ghost’s husky chuckle that came after.

 

The hot rush of guilt that singed her veins left no doubt—this had to be Paty’s passive aggression from the afterlife. _¿Te sorprendí, Mexicana? ¿Tanto tiempo sin pensar en mi, no? ¿Ya me has olvidado?_

 

Paty’s voice in her head was right - it was too hard to think of her, so Teresa tried to just… not.

 

El Güero she thought of every day, but that had been true ever since she first left México. He was with her now even more now, every time she said Raimundo’s name in scolding or in play. Her son was as dark as she was, but she had to imagine seeing El Güero in him. For the boy to grow up to be like Teo was simply not an option. Any Aljarafe in his blood she was softly, tenderly leeching out.

 

Brenda and Chino’s names, their children, were also constants in her prayers. She rolled her eyes to Fátima in heaven every time Raimundo did something naughty. She felt Santiago’s caress whenever an ocean breeze passed through town. And each tequila she poured, early in the evening after Raimundo was tucked in, was a benediction to Pote.

 

She only thought of Paty on the nights when she couldn’t sleep—less common now that she had her little creature running her ragged every day—but every once in a while, she was forced to remember. She would stand on her balcony, examining the wound that Paty’s death had left in her: fresh, open, and bleeding always. She’d read once that only time and silence could heal wounds like that. But it had been years now, and the long, quiet stretches in the grey hours offered no relief either—so Teresa had taught herself not to think of Paty so much. It was easier, anyway, to pretend that the quiet little life she had fallen in to, had brought Raimundo into, was all that there had ever been. The names she carried with her from before were just part of a bad dream.

 

This was easy enough with Raimundo nearby. But here in the airport bar, Paty’s ghost not ten feet away, Teresa couldn’t run from it anymore. The old wound inside her began to ache again; it was oozing, it stung.

 

She had been staring, she realized, as the ghost caught her eye. Teresa’s stomach turned to knots, she tried to look away, but the ghost smirked, and rolled her eyes as the man beside her chattered on unaware. Teresa heard, in Paty’s voice, _¿puedes creer a este tío?_

Teresa felt the corner of her mouth twitch, but wasn’t sure she had managed the smile she’d meant in return. She tore her gaze away, threw back her tequila, and signaled the bartender for another.

 

Taking a sip from the new glass, she tried to observe the ghost out of the corner of her eyes. The ghost was now fully ignoring the man, who chattered on animatedly without noticing as Pa—no, as the ghost—scrolled through her phone.

 

Ghosts shouldn't be able to scroll through phones, Teresa thought, but at least it meant she could observe her more carefully now.

 

Trust Patricia to send a supermodel phantom to haunt Teresa. Not that Teresa, or anyone really, needed reminding of how beautiful Paty had been. Regal and sharp-looking, a little bit scary, always polished and gleaming, just the way a lieutenant ought to look to keep the troops in line. But Teresa had always been able to see something smaller and vulnerable in Paty. She looked for some sign of that in the ghost, but couldn’t find it. Just soft alabaster skin, rosebud pink lips, dark green eyes—oh, Paty's eyes had been golden brown. _O'Farrell_ , she thought, _sigues errando la marca_. _El pelo_ , _los ojos_... Teresa smiled to herself. How stupid she was being. This wasn't a ghost. Just an eerie coincidence. No need to feel so nervous.

 

A pause, another sip of her tequila, and Paty’s voice came to her again:

 

_Pero sigues mirando._

 

She blushed. _No seas mensa,_ she thought, but she wasn't sure if it was to herself or to Paty. Just because she hadn't had a man in a while didn't mean she was suddenly… no. She had often joked with herself, with Paty, with Pote, about how she was cursed with men— but that wasn't, that wasn't anything to do with—

 

 _Cálmate_ , _Mendoza_. _Estás sola. Y Patricia está muerta._ She looked up at the ceiling, accusingly, daring Paty to come up with a retort to that. She took another sip of her tequila, and craned her neck around to check the departures board just outside the bar.

 

Carajo, the flight was more than an hour delayed now. Well, no matter—the driver would be keeping tabs on the flight updates, and he was paid to wait for her anyway. She was anxious to get back to Raimundo though. She hated leaving him—but it was true, as Oleg had communicated to her, Gibraltar wasn't stable enough anymore if her accounts were going to support her and her son indefinitely. When the Russians had decided to move several major funding streams from accounts in Gibraltar to the Cayman Islands, Oleg had discreetly folded Teresa's assets into the process, setting up an account for her in the same off-shore bank. They hadn't seen each other, not even spoken directly since that last day in Marbella. Always communicating through couriers or foot soldiers—but Teresa still trusted Oleg more than any other living person. It was also true that keeping the money farther away was safer, all things considered. But after Eddy Álvarez had burned her in the aftermath of Santiago's death, she'd never had much love for bankers. So every other quarter, Teresa flew out to George Town, sat down with the account manager, and went over every cent that had gone in and out. She could tell they thought it was a bit much, but when was the last time she'd given a shit what people thought of her? She'd keep going, twice a year, every year, until they earned her trust.

 

The flight had been the same, every time, for the last four years. She hired a private car to Rome, flew commercial first class from Fiumicino to Miami, and then the bank put up part of the cost of hiring a private jet between Florida and George Town. One of the perks of being one of their largest investment customers. The red eye from Miami back to Fiumicino was normally a reliable flight, but some weather or other was keeping them grounded.

 

Most of them anyway. Teresa heard the airport intercom echo:

 

“Attention passengers, this is the final boarding call for Flight 201 direct to New York JFK…”

 

And then she heard the yelp, and hurried shuffling, as the man speaking to the ghost jumped up. Flustered, he reached over the bar to grab a napkin and a pen, writing his number, presumably, and shoving it into the ghost's hands as he bent over and kissed them exaggeratedly. Teresa smiled and rolled her eyes without really meaning to. The man went running out of the bar, bags comically flapping around him, and Teresa and the ghost locked eyes again.

 

The ghost smiled, gestured with her chin at the empty stool next to Teresa. Teresa didn't move. Or maybe she did. She must have done, actually, because now the ghost was standing, gathering her bags.

 

 _Mierda_ , Teresa thought, watching the ghost walk towards her. You’d have to be blind to not notice a body like that, but still the heat on her cheeks felt like a betrayal.

 

The ghost sat down, smiling warmly. Not warm like Paty had been—or had been when she knew that you could see the small, vulnerable little places inside her—but smoldering, predatory, like a jaguar winding itself up to pounce on her prey. Teresa noticed that the napkin with the man’s number was left abandoned at the other corner of the bar.

 

"What are you drinking?" the ghost asked. The accent was familiar, but not Paty’s.

 

Teresa's mouth went dry but she managed to respond. "Tequila." She looked down at the glass, mostly empty now, and fiddled with it a bit, feeling the hairs on her arm rise up as the ghost scrutinized her.

 

"¿De dónde sos?" the ghost asked.

 

Teresa had to cough to cover up a laugh. Seriously, an Argentine?

 

"Mexicana," she smiled, "¿y tú? ¿Porteña, no?"

 

The ghost was smirking. She waved at the bartender, pointing down at Teresa's drink and holding up two fingers.  "De Rosario. Odio los porteños."

 

Teresa couldn't contain her smile this time. Alright, this definitely wasn't a ghost of Patricia's. God, the thought of Paty sending an Argentine to do her dirty work? Inconceivable. If there's anything she hated more than uncultured sudacas, it was uncultured sudacas who put on the airs of Europeans.

 

The bartender brought over two tequilas. Teresa and the ghost took their little glasses and raised them towards each other.

 

"A sudamérica", the ghost said.

 

Teresa smiled, taking her sip, and couldn’t help but correct her. "México queda en norteamérica, amiga.”

 

The ghost laughed, and the smile slid right off Teresa's face. Maybe Paty hadn't sent her, but somehow she still had that laugh. Paty's laugh.

 

The ghost didn’t seem to notice. She made small talk, introduced herself—Mercedes, a fashion photographer, heading back to work at Vogue Italia after spending her birthday week on her parent’s ranch somewhere in Santa Fe.

 

So they were going in the same direction. Teresa was unsettled.

 

The ghost—Mercedes—didn’t ask much about Teresa, which she was grateful for. She was still trying to work out what this meant, for this ghost who felt so like Paty and so unlike her at the same time to suddenly appear before her. The conversation felt familiar, too, having Paty—no, Mercedes—chattering away while Teresa stayed quiet, calculating.

 

She remembered reading something, a lifetime ago. _There are two ways of seeing_ : _with the body and with the soul. The body's sight can sometimes forget, but the soul remembers forever_.

 

The airport intercom interrupted Mercedes in the middle of some lighthearted anecdote:

 

"Attention travelers, due to transatlantic weather patterns, Flight 971 to Fiumicino Rome is now delayed until tomorrow at 9:30AM. Please see a gate agent for…”.

 

“La concha….”  Mercedes muttered, pulling out her phone and beginning to type furiously.

 

Teresa sighed. She’d have to get in touch with Signora Busoni, the housekeeper who came once a week and stayed overnight with Raimundo when Teresa took these trips. She supposed she’d also have to get a hotel. There was probably something serviceable near the airport.

 

Teresa pulled her own phone out and sent an email to the driver due to pick her up at Fiumicino. He’d be able to call Signora Busoni at the house, since Teresa knew she avoided touching the cellphone she’d got her as much as possible. Teresa didn’t blame her—she’d never much cared for the sound of a phone ringing herself.

 

She laid a crisp American $100 down on the bar, and stood, throwing back the rest of her last tequila. Mercedes looked up.

 

“¿Te vas?”

 

Teresa shrugged. “No me voy a pasar la noche en el aeropuerto. Creo que hay un Holiday Inn aquí cerquita.”

 

Mercedes grinned, and Teresa thought of the disappearing cat in that American cartoon Raimundo had been obsessed with last year, watching it over and over and over again till Teresa couldn’t stand to be in the same room when it was on.

 

Mercedes held up her phone. “Tengo un amigo que trabaja en el Fontainebleu y me consiguió una habitación. Si querés… te doy la otra cama.”

 

The question hung between them like lead. Or it felt like that to Teresa, like a lead chain around her neck, anchoring her to the spot where she stood. Mercedes didn’t seem to notice. Her cheshire grin melted into a smirk, and she busied herself with paying her own tab as Teresa stood, feeling for the second time that night like prey caught in the predator’s path.

 

She meant to say something, but a moment later and they were walking out together, past security, towards the taxi stand where, somehow, they both got in the same car. It was too dark to see the horizon, but the air was thick and humid with the storm keeping them grounded.

 

Mercedes kept their light conversation going, and Teresa was grateful for it again because her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. _Patricia_ , she thought, _¿que diablos estás haciendo?_

 

Teresa took in the length of Mercedes’ body. Mercedes smiled lazily—she knew Teresa was looking. A heaviness, hot and twisting, coiled up low inside Teresa’s abdomen.

 

She remembered that birthday she’d passed in prison, drunk on the liquor Paty had smuggled in and the crazy plans she had for the two of them once they’d gotten out.

 

Teresa remembered that night—and she remembered that she had kissed back.

 

Fifteen minutes later they were facing each other in the hotel elevator. Teresa’s voice was working now, and she made Mercedes laugh with the story of when Raimundo walked in on Signora Busoni in the bathroom.

 

In the room, Mercedes threw her bags on the floor, and her body on one of the beds, sighing deeply.

 

“Bueno, por lo menos no tengo que ir a laburar mañana,” she laughed. Paty’s laugh.

 

Teresa set her bags down more gently, hesitating. Mercedes propped herself up on her forearms.

 

“¿Te pasa algo? ¿Querés ésta cama? A mi me da igual,” Mercedes said.

 

Teresa shook her head, and walked over to Mercedes’ bed. When she sat down next to her, Mercedes sat up, swinging her legs down beside Teresa’s. Teresa was looking at her hands, but could see Mercedes’ smile out of the corner of her eyes.

 

“No sé como hacer esto…” Teresa said, barely audible. Mercedes hummed, and pressed her hand against Teresa’s cheek, turning her head so they faced each other.

 

“Labios que dicen una cosa, corazón que piensa otra”, Mercedes whispered, grinning as she leaned in.

 

Chingada madre, it felt good.

 

 _¿Estás contenta ya, pendeja?_ Teresa thought at Paty, as she took Mercedes’ face in her hands and kissed back deeply, confidently this time.

 

Mercedes, or Paty, or maybe both, laughed, and Teresa pushed her down into the bed. The wound in her heart smarted, as usual, but she decided she could stand to think of Patricia tonight. Tonight, in fact, she would bring her back to life.  

 


End file.
